


We Belong in This World

by edylue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/F, Kidnapping, Magic, Murder, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edylue/pseuds/edylue
Summary: When they run, they hold hands. When they hold hands, they fly.





	We Belong in This World

**Author's Note:**

> request: a fairy tale that follows the eight-point arc and has a human main character

"You are to be married on the morrow," her mother tells her, "to another noble family. Don't give me that look, girl. Be grateful—the mage is going with you." She won't look at her daughter, too busy fiddling with the amulet around her neck.

The mage in question sits quietly to the side of the room, her head bowed and fingers tightly wrapped around the wood of her staff. A light snow flutters from the top.

"I don't want to get married," she tells her mother. The door to her bedchamber shuts with a slam—her mother is gone. "Salem…"

"I'm sorry, Emilia," the mage whispers. "There's nothing we can do." The door closes again, but it is with a murmur and not a bang. On her bed, still dressed in her evening wear, Emilia begins to cry.

In the morning, she will be married to a man she has never met. She will be forced to attend even more fancy dinner parties and hang onto the arm of her husband, laughing and smiling at everything he says, because he is important, and important men have big egos demanding to be stroked by women who are not even remotely interested in them.

Emilia blows out the candle on the end table. She doesn't sleep long that night. She wakes to the smell of firewood and sharp iron. Before she can get up from her bed, a strange man enters her room, eyes bright, mouth twisted into a sneer. Emilia reaches for anything that can pose as a weapon, but the man raises his large fist and empties her mind. Upon falling and waking up this time, she thinks of Salem. Emilia wonders if Salem, Salem with her strawberry-blonde hair and familiar pallor, managed to escape. "She must, she must, she must," Emilia chants as she sits. The windows of this small cell are barred, allowing the night air to crawl inside. Emilia can still smell fire.

Her legs don't cooperate at first. Emilia stumbles, her feet bare and toes threatening to break into the black of frostbite. It is at this moment she realizes her family is dead. She will not be married. She will be alone. Emilia does not cry.

The door opens—a screech. Panic surfaces, flooding Emilia's veins. An inhibitor quickly appears; Salem stands in the open doorway, torchlight around her hair, casting a makeshift halo. Emilia is strong. She will not cry. She cries. "Oh, Salem—"

"Hurry," the mage says, stomping the bottom of her staff to the ground. A protective glyph warms the area. "We must leave. They are coming for us, Emilia." Salem sweeps from the room, and Emilia follows. Her legs are functioning now. Every step causes her knees to scream with protest. She is side by side with Salem. "Your family is dead," Salem says, her tone hushed. A scratch lies across her cheekbone. "Your betrothed is to blame. He is vile. He kidnapped us—planned to kill us."

They are running now, their footsteps barely there. "Not if we kill him first," Emilia says.

"Yes." Salem frowns, her eyebrows knitted together. "He is full of bad magic that makes me want to peel off his skin." She pauses, tongue swiping along her lips. "We might need help." Emilia nods and runs even faster. She will follow Salem anywhere. Salem is her companion, the one who mended her broken fingers with such care and precision when they were young. It only took three minutes.

"There is more magic here," Salem says, as they slow to a jog. "It is different from which that has lain here for centuries."

"I can feel it," Emilia remarks softly. She smiles. It is like dull cinnamon.

"A spirit," Salem clarifies. "Not a demon." Emilia trusts her. She nods again, and Salem twirls her staff and guides them to a room.

Bookshelves line the walls. Atop the tallest shelf lounges the Spirit. It is an ugly thing, rotting flesh and blank eyes. "Hello?" it calls, the tips of its pointed ears twitching. "Do you need my help?"

It is blind, Emilia concludes. She watches Salem step forward and draw a small flame from the palm of her hand—a greeting. "We do require your assistance, Spirit." In a blink of an eye, the Spirit deteriorates and swarms Salem like flies. Salem's blood is full with magic, and as the Spirit enters her, she begins to hum, her once brown eyes now glowing blue.

Emilia and Salem do not need words. They take each other's hands and run. Emilia thinks she is flying.

Her betrothed is in his bedroom. His face is familiar; it is still painted with the harsh eyes and the contorted mouth. He attempts speech, but Salem conjures a dagger for Emilia to throw at his throat. When she throws it, she feels free, and when it becomes stuck, she feels alive. He tries to pull it out, his fingers oily and fumbling around the hilt, but the knife doesn't budge. He gargles and spits blood. Emilia has never seen a more beautiful sight.

Salem's eyes smoke blue, her body radiating. "You do not belong in this world," she growls before peeling the skin from his bones.

The Spirit will not leave Salem. "I'm quite comfortable," it says with Salem's voice. Her eyes are foggy when this happens. Once they clear, she is herself again. "Kill me," she begs Emilia. "I do not belong either."

Emilia rubs her thumb over the scratch on Salem's cheekbone. "No."

Salem blinks. "His family will come after us. It is not safe. They will not stop until we are dead."

"I know."

And so, hand in hand, they run. It feels as if they are flying.


End file.
